


Jamais deux sans trois

by flyingisland



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Face-Fucking, Group Sex, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Play, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Sex Games, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:17:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10068590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: Shiro leans in, so slowly that Lance’s breath catches with anxiety in his throat. He says quietly, before Lance can regain his composure completely, “Keith wants to be in charge tonight.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemoninagin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoninagin/gifts).



Lance is familiar with the concept of hazing, but he never thought that it would be something that he’d actually have to deal with in real life.

He’s watched the late-night news programs about sororities pushing their pledges too far. He remembers the extensive speeches that his mother gave him during the weeks leading up to his departure for the Garrison—how she’d told him that no one could make him do anything that he didn’t want to. How she’d begged for him to tell an instructor or call home if anyone ever pushed him too far. He’d greeted that paranoia with his usual casual facade. He’d told her that everything would be fine, those were the sorts of things that happened to other people. Bullying was not a part of his ever-evolving story.

But now he isn’t so sure. As he’s faced with a challenge in the way of what he truly wants, he wonders if this is the sort of thing that could actually be considered a “haze”.

Regardless, Shiro’s smile is as serene as always, aside from the tiny glimmer of something nervous and foreboding in his eyes. They’re lounging on the couch in the common area long after everyone else has gone to sleep for the night—sitting far too close considering how much space there is stretching out around them. Shiro’s human hand is warm on top of his own. The curve of his lips is bashful and hesitant. He’s speaking in short, clipped intervals, peeking around the room as though he’s afraid that someone else might be listening.

He leans in, so slowly that Lance’s breath catches with anxiety in his throat. He says quietly, before Lance can regain his composure completely, “Keith wants to be in charge tonight.”

Those words shouldn’t send such a rush of fear trembling over Lance’s skin. Shiro shouldn’t have said them as though he was unleashing some sort of forbidden curse into the air. He shouldn’t pull back, straightening up and worrying his hands together, snapping his gaze about the shadows by the door and all of the dark corners, as though Keith’s name alone will conjure him into the room like a greasy, mullet-headed Bloody Mary.

But still, he does.

“... Okay?” Lance replies, after enough time passes that it seems as though Keith isn’t going to teleport in front of them, “Is that a big deal?”

Shiro’s smile flattens out a little at the edges. Lance doesn’t miss the color that rises to his cheeks. He flicks his gaze to the floor, then to his hands that he’s clasped in his lap. His brows knit together, and it seems to Lance as though he’s arguing with himself internally.

“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s a big deal,” he says finally, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “I always enjoy myself with Keith but, um… You see…”

Lance has spent the last few weeks hyping himself up for this very situation. He’s poked and prodded at the edges of Shiro and Keith’s relationship, looking for a way in. He’s never painted himself as a desperate sort of person, and he’s always valued his own pride above the opinion of others, but…

There’s something about the two of them that he can’t ever seem to shake off. Something about the way that they look at each other, about the way that they look at _ him _ . He wonders if this is how those stupid sorority girls felt as they gazed at the groups that they were pledging to. He wonders if they would have also done anything to find a way into the lifestyle that they knew the world owed to them.

And he wonders if he’s doing his mother a huge disservice by agreeing to any of this—if somehow, so far away and out of reach, she’s bowing her head and crying in shame because she just knows that her favorite son is doing something incredibly stupid.

He would have never pegged Shiro as the type of person who would be willing to share his partner with someone else. He would have thought that the idea of polygamy would be so beyond Shiro’s realm of understanding that the entire concept of it would completely blow his mind. He’d face the idea of it with disgust and contempt, he’d secretly consider Lance a deplorable person for even harboring the thought of it, and he’d accuse Keith of wanting to cheat on him with nothing more than a flimsy excuse.

And maybe that’s what Lance had thought at first too—when Keith had made that very first move. His initial response had been to pull away, because Shiro was their leader, and he was Lance’s hero, and he was a friend so dear that the idea of ruining things between them hadn’t even been worth the feeling of Keith’s lips so warm and soft against his skin.

But then Keith had pulled back, and he’d had the nerve to _ laugh— _ to laugh at Lance’s nervous jittering, his apologies and the many words so jumbled up by the time that they’d tumbled out of his lips that he’d been nearly incoherent. He’d cracked that terrible, cocky smile that Lance had grown to love so much—that had burned itself into the back of his thoughts like the fuzzy shadow of old shows on his family’s TV screen back home: always lingering there in the background, always a phantom just waiting for its chance to sink its needy fingers into his dreams.

He’d pressed forward and ghosted his lips over Lance’s cheeks. Lance had found the strength to whimper, “K-Keith, but—but what about Shiro?”

Keith had grinned, an insufferable Cheshire cat, a seductive little nymph that Lance wasn’t sure in that moment if he wanted to kiss or to kill, and he’d replied, so simply that it made Lance feel like a stupid child, “Who do you think asked me to kiss you, dumbass?”

Lance hadn’t understood at the time that he wasn’t the only one pursuing.

When he wrapped his head around everything that had happened, he'd eventually come to realize that the hunter had become the hunted.

Now, he marvels at the amount of planning that apparently goes into threesomes. All of the porn in the world couldn’t have prepared him for this. Shiro’s asked him a variety of questions since they started this—from general likes to dislikes, to the ways that he prefers to be kissed to the things that he doesn’t even want to admit to himself. Keith has been more casual, scoffing at Shiro’s good-natured prying and saying only,  _ “Why don’t we just find out when we find out? It’s not supposed to be this serious, Shiro. I’m sure Lance knows how to say no when he doesn’t like something.” _

And maybe Shiro really does just worry too much, or maybe he knows something about Keith that he’s not cluing Lance in on just yet.

Maybe there’s more to all of this than he’s able to understand right now.

Shiro settles back against the couch more calmly, his muscles losing most of their tenseness and his fearful grin fading back to its usual level of comfort. He takes a deep breath, tipping back his head and staring at the ceiling, and Lance takes a moment to admire the fading bruises scattered about his throat. He’s never noticed them before now. He’s never taken the time to really drink in Shiro and accept him for everything that he is.

It’s true that he’s their leader—the best of that they could ask for—and it’s true that he’s a hero and a star pilot, that he’s a good-natured guy with the world on his shoulders who would never let you see how much he’s struggling deep inside. But apparently he’s also a lover, and apparently he’s a lover who lets Keith do pretty much anything that he wants to—and apparently he’s such a giving lover because he likes the punishment, but he’s worried that Keith might dish out more than Lance can take.

He shakes his head, covering one hot cheek with his hand and glowering over at the doorway. Neither of them could possibly know that he’s never done this before. With the way that he carries himself, surely they’ve decided that he also has a few notches in his belt.

He has no idea about Keith, but Shiro’s too handsome and charismatic to be a virgin. Keith’s beauty is dangerous and unattainable—he’s prickled and hard, wrapped up in so many protective layers that Lance doubts anything but Shiro’s healing light could ever filter through. Despite this, he knows that they’ve been together for a long time. He’s positive that they haven’t managed to keep it in their pants this entire time either. So regardless of how untouchable Keith might be, or how innocent Shiro is, they’ve still had plenty of time to garner more experience than he could ever hope for.

He never would have imagined that he’d lose his virginity in a threesome. He never would have thought that he’d be so lucky.

Surely, when he returns to Earth, despite the many enemies slain, the adventures they’ve embarked on, the faces of inhuman creatures forever branded in his memories, this will be the single greatest accomplishment that he’s ever managed to call his own.

With a deep breath, he straightens up in his seat, vibrating with newfound determination and turning quickly to send Shiro a winning, forcibly confident smile. He stuffs his nervousness far down in the pits of his belly, telling himself that everything will be okay, that something in his life can actually manage to end up as good as it looks in his fantasies.

“He’s waiting for us, right?” He asks, reaching out to take Shiro’s hand in his, “Keith’s kind of impatient. Should we make him wait any longer?”

 

* * *

 

When they enter Keith’s room, Lance isn’t entirely sure what to expect.

Part of him is disappointed about the lack of candles and rose petals—the distinct absence of a tiger-skin rug or silky sheets glimmering in the moonlight under the glow of Keith’s translucent skin. He’s thrown off by how terribly average it seems to be in here—how it’s just as dark as his room is when the lights are dimmed, how Keith is sitting calmly on the bed with his usual frown, legs crossed in front of him with his hands in his lap.

He raises a brow as they enter, sending Shiro a curt nod. Shiro hesitates in the doorway, his human hand wrapped loosely around Lance’s arm. They stand still for a moment that feels like a lifetime to Lance, only looking at each other with a silence so pregnant between them that he feels as though he’s drowning in it.

Finally, Keith swings his legs over the side of the bed, propping himself up on his hands. A small smile hints at the corners of his lips, and the fire growing only stronger in his eyes is one that Lance has only seen in the reflection of enemy soldier’s helmets.

He looks predatory, Lance thinks. He looks as though he’s just waiting to pounce.

Shiro finally manages to move away from the door, and the sound of it sliding closed behind him makes Lance jump. He cranes his neck back, staring at the blank white of the wall for only a moment, then snapping his gaze from Shiro’s nervous smile to the slow lull of Keith making his way across the room. Lance realizes that he’s never noticed the subtle sway of Keith’s hips when he walks before—but maybe he’s just doing that now for show. It’s a weird thought, that Keith might be adding some extra flair to his movements just to work them up, and he isn’t entirely sure how he feels about it.

Regardless, Keith finally reaches Shiro, and he winds his arms around his neck. Slowly, as though Lance’s life is a movie and this is the most intense of its scenes, those long arms wrap around Shiro, pulling him downward, locking him in a torturous, long-lasting kiss.

Lance swallows hard, feeling suddenly as though he’s just gulped down a rather stubborn mouthful of food goo.

Shiro lets out a shaky breath as Keith pulls away. Their lips are still just barely touching, but Keith has flicked his gaze in Lance’s direction. His fingers thread through what’s left of Shiro’s hair—raking over his scalp in a way that even has Lance’s skin tingling.

“Get on the bed,” Keith says bluntly, his unwavering stare halting any of Lance’s arguments before he can even muster the strength to speak, “Now.”

Lance nearly trips over his feet, scrambling over to the bed and pulling himself up onto the mattress. Keith’s once tidy bedding gets pushed up under his knees, folding over itself into a tangled mess when he turns around to sit. While he’s doing this, Keith has continued to kiss Shiro. His hands slip down from Shiro’s hair to his neck, over his shoulders and down his chest. Lance nearly jumps out of his skin as one of Keith’s eyes slides open, his gaze settled on Lance across the room—still and intense, all-consuming.

He pulls away from Shiro again.

“Get the stuff out of the bedside drawer,” he says, “Get everything set up.”

Shiro nods, moving so much slower than Lance managed to—with more purpose, and the sort of confidence that Lance can never imagine having during a moment like this. Keith is watching over both of them with hawk-like eyes, zeroed in on each of their movements as though he might step forward and punish them if they do anything wrong.

Lance knows that can’t possibly be the case—Shiro wouldn’t stick around for a relationship like that, surely—but he wriggles uncomfortably on the bed nonetheless, feeling suddenly as though Shiro actually didn’t ask him  _ enough  _ questions when he was grilling him earlier in the week.

Keith takes off his jacket, sliding it over his shoulders and allowing it to plop down on the floor. Shiro is fiddling with something in the drawer, pulling out a few items and setting them on the nightstand, but Lance can’t see what they are over his shoulders.

“Lance,” Keith says suddenly, “Get undressed.”

He almost asks Keith who put him in charge, or who he thinks he is barking orders like he’s suddenly the head of Voltron, but something about that demanding tone sends a quiver of hot arousal straight down into the pits of his stomach. He shakes his head a little, not really sure why, and makes shaky work of unbuttoning his pants and slipping them down past his knees. Next to Shiro, whose muscles move about, graceful and hard and powerful, underneath the tight layer of his casual clothes, his own chicken legs look far too small. His knobby knees click together as he trembles in the coolness of the room—from the cold, of course, but also with a sense of fear and insecurity that renders him nearly immobile.

Shiro turns gradually, a soft smile playing against his lips as he takes in Lance’s red face and his desperately shaking figure. He motions as though to tell Lance to raise his arms, and Lance obliges, feeling just a little bit like an unruly child.

His jacket goes first—folded neatly and placed next to Shiro’s pile on the nightstand. Then his shirt—followed by a wave of goosebumps prickling over his skin. Already, he feels lightheaded and far too hot. Even in the chilliness of the room, he feels as though his skin could melt straight through the floor.

Keith watches all of this with the same eagle-eyed expression. He’s standing perfectly straight, arms crossed over his chest. He’s focusing on the way that Shiro’s fingers fold up the fabric of Lance’s clothes, how he turns to send him a bashful grin before closing the nightstand drawer and gathering up the supplies. Lance still doesn't know what any of that is, and he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to take off his boxers or not. He feels dreadfully out of the loop, looking between both of them as though someone might cave and clue him in.

The assortment of things in Shiro’s arms clink together as he dumps them on the bed. He sorts through them with great care, taking a set of handcuffs and pushing them off to the side—twining his fingers in the lace of some kind of strap that Lance can’t quite figure out. There are two different bottles filled with a clear, viscous liquid. One of them is emptier than the other—the one with the bright red cap—while the other, a little more bland looking with just a regular white label and black cap, seems as though it’s almost full. He can’t read the text on either of them, but he doesn’t recognize it as Altean or Galra either.

For the life of him, he can’t fathom where they picked this stuff up. He isn’t sure if he should ask.

When Keith speaks, he’s closer than he was before, and Lance twitches nervously at the sound of his voice just above him, and the heat of his skin close enough to touch.

“If you’re going to ask where it comes from,” Keith says, raising a hand to comb through Lance’s hair—a little too roughly, tugging his head back as he goes. “Don’t.”

Lance bites the inside of his lip, forcing down any retorts that he might have thought up, if only he weren’t so positively enamored with this new version of Keith. As much as it pisses him off to no end, as frustrating as it is to be bossed around as though he’s not capable of his own free will, something about all of this…

His cock throbs relentlessly. Something about it is getting him going a lot more than he’d care to admit.

“So Lance,” Keith starts again, turning to Shiro and watching with that same calculating expression as he continues to move their things around, “Do you remember when I saved your lion? You know, when you almost ruined everything because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants?”

Lance opens his mouth, closing it just as quickly. Shiro moves toward them, nudging Keith a little with his shoulder to get him to move out of the way. Keith obliges, letting go of Lance’s hair and standing back. Lance can’t bring himself to look up for whatever reason—he closes his mouth so tightly that his jaw aches, cheeks red-hot, eyes trained to the floor.

And still, despite how angry he is, and despite how desperately he wants to punch Keith right in the mouth, his erection persists.

“Do you remember how I found you?”

Shiro pauses, but Lance can feel the excitement vibrating off of him. It feels as though the entire room is alive with static—popping every time that one of them moves even an inch. As though, if they tried hard enough, they could light the whole place on fire and burn the castle to nothing.

Shiro’s hand on his face jostles Lance from those thoughts. Finally, he looks up, and his skin only feels hotter when he takes in that familiar, reassuring smile. In Shiro’s other hand, he’s holding that lacy whatever-it-is. He seems to be waiting for some kind of signal to continue.

“What? You like being tied up, don’t you? Tell Shiro how you want to be tied up.”

Lance sputters at this, yanking himself free of Shiro’s gentle hold and leaning around him to gape at Keith. Somehow, Keith still manages to look smug while standing there, demanding something so stupid—so absolutely ridiculous as Lance telling Shiro how to—

To…

He’s startled when he really thinks about it—when he pauses for a moment to compose himself. There’s no disgust where he swears that he should be finding disgust. He doesn’t feel scandalized by any of this. He doesn’t feel like this situation’s already gotten out of hand.

In fact, he feels excited. He feels as though telling Shiro how to tie him up is exactly what he wants to do right now.

If only, he muses, he could actually manage to get the words out without making himself look like an idiot.

His movements are jerky when he places his wrists together, raising them above his head. Keith snorts at that, sending even more color licking hot against his cheeks. Shiro’s smile tugs up a little at the corners, and he raises a brow. He still moves forward nonetheless, taking the lacy thing and using it to tie Lance’s wrists together. Belatedly, he realizes that they were laughing because there’s nothing to tie his arms to. He’s sitting still, with his hands in the air, as Shiro scoots him to press his back against the flat expanse of the wall above Keith’s bed—where there should be a headboard.

Where there would be, he thinks, if this were a bedroom on Earth. And there isn’t, and hasn’t ever been, and he’s an idiot for not paying enough attention to remember that.

Keith’s room doesn’t even have a window to filter in moonlight—and neither does his own. He wonders how he could have gotten himself so wrapped up in his own fantasies that he’s already forgotten what his bed, and the other uniform four that his crew-mates share, actually looks like to him before he closes his eyes and allows himself to fall asleep every night.

He feels indignant anyway. He feels as though he should pretend that this is still the best position no matter what—because honestly, fuck Keith. Fuck him for giving Lance a choice when obviously he’s already getting worked up about this. Fuck him for thinking that anyone else could make a sane decision under so much pressure.

Shiro moves back, unzipping his vest and shrugging out of it. He folds it up nice and neat, just how he had with Lance’s clothes, and he places it on top of that pile. Lance watches him eagerly, growing only more annoyed by the second. Couldn’t they have worked on getting undressed while he was? Is dragging this out all part of their ridiculous plan to get him as frustrated as possible?

Between his legs, under the horrible tent in his boxers, his cock aches. It twitches slightly, begging for attention, but never growing any softer despite the fact that no one has even touched him yet. If anything, the sight of Shiro now pulling his shirt over his head has it taking in more blood, hard and so desperate for any sort of attention, prodding at the hole in the front of his boxers in a traitorous attempt to free itself.

Keith is watching Shiro too, but in his tight, dark pants, there’s really no telling if there’s an erection hiding in there or not. For all Lance knows, he’s incapable of feeling anything but anger and annoyance anyway. Somehow, he gets his thrills out of simply putting people in these situations and making them squirm.

Lance swallows hard as Shiro crouches down to pull down his pants, but curiously enough, he also doesn’t remove him underwear. He’s sculpted from stone—rippled and hard in all of the right places—the round globes of his ass pressing up into the air like a statue carved of marble. He’s littered with scars: some tiny and some wide, some so faded that Lance can only see them in the shadows under the light, and some so deep that Lance wonders if they reach down to the bone. In the cave of his knee, there’s a deep gash reaching out—like a spider web of dark red veins crawling over his skin. On his side, where Lance remembers Keith telling him that Haggar attacked him, there are markings branded in a deeper, ashen sort of black. As though the healing pod could fix the wound, but it could have never stopped the atrophy of cells already rotted away.

He takes in Shiro slowly, gradually dragging his eyes over all of the private places that he’s never peeked at under his clothes. Shiro is watching Keith, as though waiting for his guidance, as though peering up at a parent in his own bashfulness and insecurity, hoping that Keith’s thin frown might chase all of that away.

The scars are the deepest at the base of Shiro’s mechanical arm. He’d always imagined that it just ended abruptly, like human skin suddenly calcifying into metal. Like a turtle becoming its own shell, with no indication that it’s not supposed to be there at all. It’s startling to look at. It strikes an emotion inside of Lance that he can’t quite put a name to.

But he hates the fact that he’s allowed himself to be tied up already.

He hates that he can’t reach out and touch, and heal, and show Shiro just how okay all of this is—and how okay it will be, as long as they’re together from now on.

Shiro straightens himself out, and Keith pulls him into another kiss. Lance doesn’t miss the way that his fingers ghost along the edges of Shiro’s prosthetic. Suddenly, he feels like a voyeur snooping in on something that he’s not supposed to see.

He snaps his head away, biting his lip and glowering at the wall—where there really should be a window, dammit! How is Keith supposed to brood efficiently if all he has in here to look at is that stupid knife and his own dirty clothes?

“I think he’s jealous,” he hears Keith mumble against Shiro’s lips. “Why don’t you go over there and kiss him too?”

He’s jostled slightly when Shiro’s weight joins him on the bed—one heavy knee, then the other. There’s a hand on his cheek that feels cold against his heated skin, and before he can prepare himself, there are lips so soft against his own that he would have never believed them to belong to Shiro if he weren’t looking right at him.

Thankfully, it’s not his first. Thankfully, he’s experienced his share of secret kisses during recess and after class—during homecoming and his going away party when he got accepted to the Garrison in the first place. Thankfully, he understands how to move his lips and he knows not to shove his tongue in Shiro’s mouth—because Shiro deserves better than that anyway. Shiro isn’t some messy-eyed girl who won’t remember his name when he finally returns home. Shiro isn’t a boy in his chem class who collects these situations like baseball cards or stamps, locking them away in his memory and never calling the number that Lance scrawls nervously on the edge of his homework before tearing it off.

Shiro is different than anyone who Lance has ever met before. He’s a hero who’s seen Hell. He’s a human who’s survived fighting with monsters. He’s a star-pilot turned leader of four people not that much younger than he is, carrying himself with a dignity that Lance could never hope to emulate. He’s kind where life has turned other people far too hard. He’s gentle even after everything he’s seen.

He’s kissing Lance as though he’s the most beautiful person in the universe—as though Keith isn’t standing two feet away from them, watching like a creep.

His head feels as though it’s floating above all of them, bopping like a helium balloon against the ceiling. Shiro pulls away, turning to send Keith a smile, and Keith says something stupid about Shiro “breaking him already” that Lance isn’t nearly coherent enough to even feel offended about.

Shiro sits back on his heels, waiting around like an obedient dog while Keith moves closer. They’re kissing again, but then Keith is leaning forward and he’s kissing Lance—and the entire room blurs and whirls around him, like water draining at the floor of the shower, as though the feeling of Keith’s warm, chapped lips is chasing everything away.

Someone is touching his knees—parting them, rubbing his thighs. Keith’s teeth are rough and unforgiving against his bottom lip. There are cold fingers combing through his hair. He can see lights and colors dancing in the darkness behind his eyelids, and feel the heat of so many bodies around him boiling him straight through. In all of the confusion, and the pleasure of being touched, he can only focus on the press of fingers into his skin, the hot wet of mouths, and the way that his cock bobs around helplessly, just waiting for someone to grab hold of it.

Suddenly, everything stops.

He opens his eyes blearily, breathing hard as Shiro’s fuzzy figure clears up at the end of the bed, and he can feel Keith’s stony eyes watching him from above.

“You like games, right?”

He blinks. For a moment, he has no idea what any of these words mean. He just wants to be kissed again. He just wants to be touched. He doesn’t understand why talking has any place in any of this.

Dumbly, he nods.

“I want to play a game with you then,” Keith tells him, grasping firmly at his hair and tipping his head back, “Shiro is going to touch you, and I don’t want you to make any noise, got it? If you make noise, you’re going to get punished. If you’re quiet, you’ll get a reward.”

It sounds like a bunch of bullshit, but he can’t stop himself from nodding. Somewhere deep in his throat, all of his lost comebacks are starting to build up. He feels as though, once he finally regains his voice well enough to speak, he might not be able to stop himself from telling Keith off for being such a terribly lame threesome host.

A game, really? Why can’t they just have sex like normal people? Why is Shiro going along with this, and why did he act like this was going to be something that Lance couldn’t handle?

Really, Shiro should know him better by now. Keeping his mouth shut? Piece of cake. He talks less than anyone else he knows!

Maybe Keith would find it hard not to brag about himself for more than five minutes, but Lance? He has this in the bag.

“How long does he have?” Shiro asks, and the sound of his voice is surprising when it breaks through the silence. Keith places a hand on his hip, cocking his head to the side and raising the other hand to rest against his chin. He contemplates this for a moment, before shaking his head and turning to dig through the nightstand drawer.

Within seconds, he’s facing them again, holding a timer in his hand that looks suspiciously like it could belong to Pidge. Lance almost asks about it, but he decides to save that for later. For now, he’s intent on showing them already how good he is at staying quiet, even before the game starts.

He’ll have time to rat Keith out to Pidge later anyway.

“Let’s see…” Keith draws it out, tapping his fingers against the timer as he sets it to some, surely completely unreasonable, amount of time. “What about ten minutes? Think you can last that long, Lance?”

Lance sends him a glare, but clamps his mouth shut. Shiro’s laughter bubbles out in front of him, smoothing down a few of his ruffles and allowing him to calm down enough to slump against the wall again. Keith doesn’t know how to run these sorts of things at all. He might have more experience under his belt than Lance does, but he might as well be a virgin too right now.

So terribly naive, he convinces himself that he can handle this. He tells himself that Keith is an idiot for thinking that staying quiet for a measly ten minutes is going to be a challenge.

Shiro shuffles forward on the bed, wobbling unevenly as he scoots one knee in front of the other until he’s mere inches away from Lance. His eyes crinkle in the corners with his usual smile. He reaches out his human hand and brushes it against Lance’s cheek.

The other one, Lance doesn’t notice for a moment too long. The cold metal of it is hard to pick out through the material of his boxers, as it ghosts up his thigh. Shiro dips in, kissing him again, dragging a hot, wet tongue along his lips in a way that has Lance eagerly opening his mouth to accept it. Finally, he feels the tingle of Shiro’s other hand dragging over the length of his erection, still trapped in his underwear. Between them, he can feel Shiro’s own hardness pressing against his knee. He tries to ignore the way that Shiro's breath hitches, as though actually taking pleasure out of bucking up against him.

If he allows himself to consider that, he might end up cumming too soon.

Shiro nips at his lip, sliding an apologetic tongue over the spots where Keith nipped him earlier. His hand wraps around Lance’s erection firmer, with more purpose, pumping so slow and so carefully that it’s already driving him mad.

Those lips slip from his own, down his jaw in a steady pace. Shiro continues to kiss trails along his skin, until he reaches his throat and bites down hard.

It’s not hard enough to bleed, and it doesn’t even hurt, but it’s such a surprise to feel those teeth pinching his skin, that molten breath burning over him, blanketing him in a heavy, light-headed sort of pleasure, that he can’t stop himself from crying out.

The sound of his voice echoes in his own ears. It seems louder than a gunshot, than the sound of Voltron’s mighty fists beating down against an enemy’s armor, than anything Lance can even remember being loud in his entire life, so jumbled up with his own stupid whimper in his head.

The timer beeps as Keith clicks it off. He won’t look in Keith’s direction, but he can feel his smirk like lit coals burning over his skin. Shiro strokes his cheek, kissing him reassuringly on the forehead.

“You lasted forty-eight seconds.” Keith says. Lance twitches.

“This is so lame,” he snaps, finally finding his voice, finally ready to tell Keith just how stupid all of this really is. “Do you really think I care about your dumb game, Keith? Do you really think I’m scared of whatever stupid punishment you have planned as though all of this isn’t just really—”

In a split second, far too quick for Lance to even catch on while he’s so intent on ranting, Keith turns to Shiro and sends him a nod, and Shiro grasps Lance by both knees, dragging him forward and planting his back against the mattress. It’s not rough enough that the air gets knocked out of his lungs, and it definitely doesn’t hurt, but the surprise alone is enough to stun him.

“Wh-what the—”

Shiro uses one hand to push both of his knees together, holding his legs up in the air. With the other, he tugs his boxers just low enough that only his ass is exposed to both of them—tangling his poor, neglected cock in the bunched up material and only sending more heat straight down to his groin.

Shiro doesn’t even give him a chance to catch up. He leans forward, dragging his hand from Lance’s boxers and parting his cheeks. Before Lance even gets the chance to complain, or to ask what in the world is going on, the same warm mouth that kissed him gently, that smiled at him, that reassured him that everything would be okay—it’s dragging a slippery tongue right between his cheeks, as though there’s nothing absolutely obscene about this at all.

Lance arches his back, pinned in an awkward position by Shiro’s hand around his knees, head reeling with so many thoughts that he can barely concentrate on anything but the feeling of Shiro lapping at him. It’s a foreign sensation, one that he’s never even considered before. Desperately, he wishes that someone would touch him, but it seems as though Shiro is intent on staying where he is, and Keith is still watching some distance away.

He’s leaning with his hand casually placed on the nightstand. He’s watching with bland, calculating eyes. The edges of him are blurry, and it’s getting harder and harder to understand what he’s doing, but it looks like he’s checking the timer, waiting for something.

Another ding fills the air. Immediately, Shiro pulls away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Lance looks back and forth between them, confused and overwhelmed, head spinning with pleasure and the need to understand. Keith’s smile is lopsided with the faintest hint of teeth peeking through the corners of his lips.

“Forty-eight seconds,” he says softly, moving forward and dragging his fingers through Lance’s hair, for what feels like the millionth time tonight. “Ready for round two?”

“Be nice,” Shiro presses, but his grin betrays him as he releases his hold on Lance’s knees and allows his legs to fall down to the mattress, “Give him a second to cool off.”

Lance sucks in a deep breath, clenching his fists in their meager bindings and staring up at the ceiling. He isn’t sure if he loves this or hates it—if it even matters anymore, or if maybe this situation is awakening in him a new emotion entirely. If somehow, it’s possible to feel so torn about something that he isn’t even familiar with his own emotions anymore.

It doesn’t matter, because Shiro is moving over him—a hand planted firmly on the mattress next to each side of his arms, and he’s kissing him in that same way, that makes his brain feel as though it might melt away.

If he really focuses, he can hear the clicking of the timer, and he can feel the way that Keith’s eyes take him in hungrily, as though he’s barely able to hold himself back from joining in. Lance isn’t sure why he feels like any of this is necessary, but suddenly this game isn’t feeling nearly as stupid or nearly as simple anymore.

Suddenly, with one of Shiro’s hands sneaking down to tweak at his nipple, and Shiro’s own erection grinding against his through the material of both of their underwear, he’s finding it nearly impossible to keep his noises to himself.

He can’t even bite his lip or clamp his mouth shut, because Shiro is there—kissing him, enveloping him completely, all around him like a thick, safe, intoxicating heat. He can feel the hum of Shiro’s touch right down to his veins, pumping in his blood, filling up his lungs, expanding him with so much emotion that he feels as though he might explode.

Shiro bucks up against him a little rougher, and he bites out a groan. The timer beeps, and Shiro pulls away, wearing the same apologetic smile as before—just a little bit messier. There’s a deep color tinting his cheeks. His hair stands up in weird directions.

“Two minutes and twenty-four seconds,” Keith says, and again, as though time itself is coming unwound, the moments in which Shiro isn’t touching him and Shiro is burying his face between his legs meld together.

Lance sputters a noise that might be surprise, but it might be a moan, and it might not even be a human sound as all. He feels as though nothing is making as much sense as it should be—as though he’s plunged too deep into the pleasure of Shiro licking him and still not touching his erection, the teasing that’s driving him to the edge, the idea of Keith watching and taking all of this in, waiting in the backdrop for his own chance to take him apart.

He tries to count the seconds at first, if only so he won’t be surprised when it ends again, but the numbers get jumbled in his head when Shiro grasps both of his cheeks in each hand, spreading him wider and lapping at him with more force. He never would have anticipated the wave of pleasure that washes over him when this happens. He never would have considered that being touched so lightly would do anything for him at all.

Without thinking, he tips his head to the side, and he looks at Keith.

Keith is watching both of them, clutching the timer loosely in one hand. He might have looked as though he had it all together earlier, but now Lance isn’t so sure. The way that he’s leaning against the nightstand seems more like a dying man grasping for a lifeboat in the ocean than the cool, cavalier stance that Lance assumed of him just a few minutes ago. He’s shaking, just a little, his fingers white and tense around the timer as though he’s fighting down the urge to do something. Lance can’t focus on him long enough to make out any color on his cheeks, or an obvious bulge in his pants, because Shiro is doing something with his tongue that has his body moving on its own. He’s arching up, digging his fingernails painfully into his palms, toes curling, cock twitching—his entire being engulfed in a fire that he’s afraid might never go out.

He can’t imagine anything feeling this good ever again, and still, he wants more.

He begs for Shiro to stop teasing him, to undress him and bury himself inside. He begs for Keith to come over and touch him. He begs for the timer to end, for the game to wrap up, for all of this horrendous foreplay to finally stop so he can get someone inside of him. So he can bury himself inside of someone else.

So he can taste them, and touch them, and finally mark his place in this group permanently.

As though God has finally chosen to hear his plight, the timer dings again.

Keith’s hand feels like it’s freezing him to the core, so jarring against his cheek that it cuts away the blurring at the corners of his vision. He gazes up into Keith’s eyes—losing himself in the reflection of his own bleary face, staring down at him in the blackness of Keith’s blown-out pupils.

Keith opens his mouth as though he’s going to say something, but the words don’t come right away. He sends Shiro a desperate look, and Lance can’t stop staring at him long enough to figure out what he finds there.

“Do… do you know what the reward is for beating the game, Lance?” Keith asks him, his voice cracked and uneven, just a rush of sound between breathlessness, as though Keith’s been waging a tiring battle this entire time.

Lance only stares. He can’t make words work for him anymore. Shiro moves forward, planting a wet kiss against his other cheek. Even his lips feel like ice. He feels like he’s drowning.

“P—pl— _ please— _ ”

His voice doesn’t sound like anything that he recognizes. If he were coherent now, he isn’t sure if he’d be proud of the person who just a little bit of teasing has made him.

But Shiro’s voice is earnest, and there’s no judgment in Keith’s eyes. They’re looking at him as though he’s doing just fine—better even, than they could have expected. Keith looks like a kid waking up on Christmas morning, like the first thing he’d scribbled on his wishlist was another man bound up and begging on his bed. As though, in this completely ridiculous scenario that Lance’s brain has decided to conjure up, this is everything that Keith has ever wanted, and maybe even more.

Shiro is running fingers through his hair. Even his scalp feels too sensitive, as though every drag of their hands over his skin is sending a pulsation of pleasure down between his legs. He can’t stop himself from moaning at the feeling of it. He doesn’t even have the strength to be embarrassed anymore.

“The reward,” Shiro tells him, a hot whisper and soft lips against the shell of his ear, “is that you can choose to do whatever you want to Keith.”

Shiro is leaning against him now, and at the mention of Keith’s name, he can feel his cock twitch through his underwear against his leg. The feeling of it, so close and just as needy as his own, has him blubbering again. Keith clicks his tongue, pulling away from both of them and crossing his arms over his chest.

“That’s  _ if _ you can last ten minutes,  _ cargo pilot _ .”

Lance opens his mouth to object, to finally let Keith have it, but then Shiro is kissing him again—grinding against him again, and wrapping him up in that same overwhelming heat that he thinks he might get drunk off of for the rest of his life. He can already imagine the days rolling out ahead of him, filled with this lightheaded bliss. As though everything that’s been resting so heavily on his shoulders has melted away to nothing but a whisper, and the ghost of Shiro’s touch.

The clicks of the timer are deafening. He turns his head away from Shiro’s mouth, snapping his teeth shut so tightly that the sound of them clicking together seems to echo through the room. Shiro breathes a laugh, nibbling instead at his neck—lapping at his skin and biting down harder once he’s kissed every inch of him, then suckling at him roughly enough that Lance is sure he’ll find marks there tomorrow.

For all the good he’s done, Shiro is evil. He’s a horrible creature plotting together with Keith to take him down. He doesn’t miss all of the cheap shots that Shiro takes in an attempt to sabotage him: raking his nails over sensitive nipples, grinding down hard in just the right spots. But he won’t give in this time. No matter how good it feels, he won’t let that mullet-headed bastard win.

He finds himself glaring up at Keith, but Keith isn’t even paying attention to him anymore. Or, if he were aware enough right now to notice, maybe it would seem as though Keith is doing everything in his power to look like he doesn’t care about any of this at all. He’s stealing glances in their direction, fiddling with the timer as though he’s just as eager as Lance is for it to go off.

He’s leaning against the nightstand again, fidgeting as he takes off his boots and his socks. He nearly drops his lame fanny pack when he unclasps it, and getting it undone in the first place takes longer than it probably should.

But Lance isn’t paying a lot of attention to the way that he fumbles. He’s taking in the subtle curves of his body beneath his clothes. He’s watching the way that those thighs clench when he leans down, imagining how they would feel wrapped around him, imagining the way that Keith’s skin would look painted pink with embarrassment, white with fresh cum splashed over his hot cheeks.

He’s wondering what Keith’s voice would sound like in the depths of passion—if he ever cries out Shiro’s name. If he's ever cried out at all. Or maybe if he bites down on his lip so hard that it even draws blood; if he’s the type of person to rake those dull, unkempt nails down someone’s back, or if he holds onto his stupid sense of superiority until he can’t help it in anymore—if when he finally breaks, he does so completely, blossoming beautifully in the hands of the lucky man who gets to pull him apart.

He watches Keith for what feels like hours. He keeps every single traitorous noise lodged deep down in his throat. His wrists chafe against the lace of their bindings. His arms feel numb and heavy above his head.

And eventually, the timer dings—so loud and so unexpected that all three of them jump.

For a moment, everyone stands still. Keith is looking at the timer as though he’s never seen it before. As though somehow, it’s appeared on the nightstand in the middle of all of this, and he hasn’t been messing with it for nearly twenty minutes now. Shiro tips back, sitting on the pads of his feet, placing his hands flat on the sheets to steady himself. The outline of his cock in his underwear momentarily distracts Lance, who can’t help but gape at the size of it—the girth of it, the idea that he’s actually looking Takashi Shirogane’s boner in the face in real life and not in some convoluted fever dream or forbidden late-night fantasy.

“Give him a minute to catch up, Keith,” Shiro says, and he sounds a little overwhelmed himself. The spots of wetness where the head of his penis strains against the material of his underwear give him away. Lance has no trouble believing that he’s eager to start having fun too. That maybe this has dragged out too long, and everyone is ready for the grand finale.

His eyes fall back on Keith, who is shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot. He doesn’t argue now that Lance has finally won, but he doesn’t seem intent on congratulating him graciously either. Lance tips his head to the side, looking over Shiro’s shoulder at the pile of different items that’s now become a cluster at the foot of the bed. He doesn’t even know why Shiro took the time to organize everything, since he had to have known that they’d only mess it up.

Really, the amount of mental gymnastics that these two are putting him through is entirely too much for his current state of distress.

“So what’ll it be,” Keith grates out, but the annoyance in his tone is just for show. Even Lance, as out of it as he currently feels, can hear the eagerness and the excitement pouring through. “Are you going to tell us to do something, or are we gonna stand here all night?”

Lance wriggles up, bracing his back against the wall and ignoring the shock of it against his still-heated skin. He presses a foot flat against Shiro’s chest, if only to hold himself up, and slaps on his most convincing, most mischievous smile.

“Well, let’s see…” he draws out every syllable with purpose. “Maybe I should tie you up and time you too…?”

Keith rolls his eyes, cocking his hip to the side.

“Very original.”

Shiro is watching them with guarded eyes, as though he’s determined to hide just how much their bickering is already starting to grate on his nerves. He reaches out and places his human hand against Lance’s arm, and for whatever reason, the way that he makes sure to touch him with his flesh hand freezes Lance on the spot. Even Keith, he knows, is carrying his own baggage into this relationship, but Shiro has to wear his on his skin. He has to carry his fears around with him every day, and he has to make these decisions—which have become so second-nature to him that maybe he doesn’t even notice that he’s making them at all anymore—to fight with the bad hand, to reach out with the good. To touch people only with the part of himself that he hasn’t grown to despise.

And Lance knows what he wants to do. He wants to make Shiro feel good, and he wants to make Keith feel good too.

He just doesn’t know how to put that into words.

“Come on, Lance, we don’t have all day!” Keith barks, and suddenly, as quickly as those sappy, romantic thoughts came to him, they slip away.

“Fine,” Lance turns to Shiro, a snide, sneaky sort of grin pulling up the corners of his lips. “Shiro, can you untie me?”

Shiro nods, and Lance doesn’t have time to contemplate that he seems to enjoy taking orders from them a lot more than a leader probably should. Maybe, he thinks, it’s nice to take some time off from always having to be in control, but he suspects that it might be a little bit dirtier than that.

With Keith already so overbearing outside of the bedroom, he can’t imagine what their one-on-one has been like up until now.

His wrists are freed, and he clenches and unclenches his fists as he lowers them down to his lap. His skin tingles and aches, blood returning to the only chilly part of him slowly and uncomfortably. But he doesn’t focus on that for too long, because he has a job to do—and now that he’s given one order, they’re both watching him expectantly, as though they think that he’s not just playing this by ear.

“Keith, get naked.”

Keith grumbles, but he does as he’s told. Lance and Shiro both watch him undress, seeming as though they’re both just as ready to see him finally let loose a little and admit to them, at the very least, that this is getting him a lot more worked up than he’s letting on.

First, he pulls his shirt over his head, and Lance admires the smooth, milky expanse of skin that he finds underneath. Dense muscle moves about beneath it, flexing and pulled tight as he leans forward to push down his pants. His cock bobs out—red-tipped and already damp with precum, so lonely and untouched that Lance almost feels bad for him. Until, of course, the realization that he hasn’t been wearing underwear sinks in, and he finds himself looking away in a flash, sputtering out a command for Shiro to take off his underwear as well.

He almost undresses himself, but then he’s watching the way that Shiro’s erection sways when it’s finally freed from its bindings, and he’s licking his lips despite himself. He’s reaching a hand out, grasping it at the base—taking in the girth and the heat of it and wondering just how good it would feel buried inside of him.

But then he’s looking at Keith again, watching both of them with flaming cheeks. He’s thinking about all of the time that he’ll have to experience being filled completely, and he’s wondering if he’s willing to put that off just a little bit longer for something even better.

A quivering, sex-starved Keith. A version of his rival that’s nothing but putty in both of their palms. A Keith who hangs between them, dragged forward and back and forced through the rocky trenches of pleasure with no choice of his own—a Keith who begs him for orgasm instead. A Keith who might fold under his touch.

With the way that Keith is watching him—poking out a pink tongue to wet his lips—as he pumps a few times at Shiro’s erection, it doesn’t seem as though he would mind that predicament too much at all. If anything, he seems as though he’s longing for it.

Shiro is trembling in front of him, wobbling in his uncomfortable position on the pads of his feet, as though he doesn’t know what to do with himself—or as though he thinks that all of this will end too soon if he tries to move. Lance allows his gaze to slip lazily back in Keith’s direction, shooting him a snide grin and tightening his grip around Shiro’s cock.

“Are you just going to stand there, Mullet? You know, we don’t have all night.”

Keith knits his brows, glaring hotly before trudging toward the bed.

To his credit, he doesn’t drag it out too much. He climbs onto the bed loyally, as though he has no problem stepping down and allowing Lance to take the reins, and really, why should he? Lance is an awesome leader! Honestly, if they’d give him a chance to lead the team every so often, he’s sure that he could have Zarkon defeated in record time!

“Lance,” Keith interjects, stabbing right through his sudden fantasies—Zarkon dying at his feet, Shiro and Keith clinging humbly to each of his legs, swearing on their lives that they’ll make love to him with more passion than they’ve ever expressed in their lives. “Seriously. Hurry up. What are we supposed to do next?”

“Fine, fine, fine!” he throws his hands in the air, scooting even further back until there’s a good foot between himself and Shiro. When his hand slips away from Shiro’s erection, they both look down toward it, watching the way that it bobs in betrayal and mourning the loss of that shared moment. “Why so impatient,  _ Keith _ ? You got somewhere else to be?”

Keith is standing with one knee on the bed. His own erection is poking up toward Shiro, as though it’s learned gradually who it should depend on if it wants to be touched. Lance spares a second to imagine if Keith ever touches himself. He wonders what sorts of secrets have died away between the walls of this room—what sorts of sounds Keith has made, who he’s thought of, how many times he’s given into temptation and divulged himself with nervous hands doing sloppy work beneath his blankets.

He swallows dryly, pushing away those thoughts, if only so that giddy sense of arousal doesn’t take over his brain too soon. He still feels a little foggy, but this new purpose makes his vision a little clearer, his thoughts a little easier to grasp before they slip away.

“Shiro, back up. Keith, get on the bed between us.”

He doesn’t know how he feels about the sound of his own voice—like a drill sergeant barking orders at an unruly fleet. He thinks that Keith might have pulled this off better earlier, but he doesn’t let that bum him out too much. He needs to focus if he’s going to make this work. He needs to allow himself to slip into the skin of a leader if he’s going to convince either of them that he’s a worthy part of their—er…  _ team _ . 

Keith climbs onto the bed, scooting awkwardly between both of them. Shiro reaches out a hand—the human hand—to help steady him, smiling that same gentle, reassuring smile that distracts Lance just long enough that he can see Keith getting ready to complain again. Hurriedly, Lance wobbles about and slides his boxers down to his ankles, kicking them off of the bed gracelessly. Keith raises an eyebrow, puffing out a cheek, but says nothing of it. Maybe sexiness doesn’t even matter at this point. Maybe all of the games ended when they put him in charge.

“O-okay, uh… Shiro, you—just. Um.” He stops for a moment to gather his thoughts, looking between both of them. He never stopped to ask either of them what they’re into. He has no idea who he should put where, what they should be doing, or where he could possibly squeeze in. “Shiro, uh… you… you should start, uh. Start f-fucking him, okay?”

Keith makes a scandalized expression, craning his neck to send Shiro a look. Shiro falters, clearing his throat and snapping his gaze to the pile of items now next to him on the bed.

“Uh, Lance,” He says carefully, and Lance doesn’t miss the laughter in his words, “Why don’t we slow this down a little? Shouldn’t we… prep?”

Lance didn’t know that his face could get any hotter, but somehow it manages. Shiro is apologetic and understanding—he waves his free hand in the air as though to say that it’s not a big deal, but Lance feels like the biggest moron in the universe. He’s crouching on his knees in front of Keith, who has now decided to slump down on all fours, lazily awaiting orders. He asks himself why he thought this was a good idea—why he thought that he could slip between them so easily, why he really convinced himself that they could ever be on equal ground.

Shiro leans back and grabs the lube, and Lance is too caught up in his inner turmoil to consider calling him out for acting out of turn. He watches as Shiro pops the cap of the bottle in his hands, dribbling a particular amount over his fingers, and Lance is reminded again of how many times they’ve probably done this before.

His cock appreciates the mental picture. His self-esteem does not.

Keith is grumbling now, crawling forward on the bed. He’s looking up at Lance through the dark curtain of his bangs, his face marked by the deep shadow of Lance’s dick stabbing out into the air just above him. 

Lance swallows, then clears his throat. He tries to force a more confident grin, but his body doesn’t want to work with him anymore.

“If you don’t wanna be the leader, don’t be the leader,” Keith huffs, shifting his weight onto one hand as he raises the other to grasp the base of Lance’s erection, “but don’t act like we never gave you a chance,  _ cargo pilot _ .”

Just as Keith leans forward and takes the tip of his dick into his mouth, a fire ignites deep inside of Lance—a sudden fury that’s been far too muted since they started this whole thing. He remembers suddenly, full force, that Keith is a stuck-up asshole who probably thinks that he’s sex incarnate. He probably pats himself on the back at the end of the night, telling himself that he’s done a stellar job of pleasing his partner when Lance knows that, with a little more experience, he could surely fuck circles around someone like Keith!

He doesn’t have the patience to think about how horrible that sounds, because his temper and the sensation of a hot mouth surrounding his erection meld together into one strange, unnameable feeling.

He grasps Keith’s hair roughly, shoving him down until his cock is brushing against the back of his throat. Keith lets out a startled sort of grunt. The vibrations of it, and the feeling of everything tightening around him in surprise elicit a low, keening groan from his own throat.

Keith doesn’t fight him. He allows Lance to hold his face in place. His breathing is erratic and hard. He’s grasping Lance’s hip so tightly that his nails are itching deep into his skin. The feeling of it only adds to the experience. His tempo speeds up—he’s pumping himself into Keith’s mouth with newfound vigor—so quick that it’s knocking the bed against the wall.

As he goes, his eyes wander from Keith’s flushed face—the drool dribbling out over his chin, the tears clinging to his eye lashes—along his back, over the rise of his ass in the air, to Shiro behind him. He wonders if the differences are noticeable to Keith—if the way that Shiro is dipping tender fingers inside of him compared to how Lance is fucking his mouth is so startling that he can’t figure out what he’s supposed to feel.

He wonders if Keith gets off on this kind of thing, because Shiro’s reaching around him, touching his erection between slanted knees, and Keith is making the sorts of noises around his cock that someone who wasn’t having the time of their life probably wouldn’t be making.

He spares Lance a look—blurry-eyed, red faced. He’s just as dazed and euphoric as Lance felt earlier. He looks as though he might already tumble over the edge.

“Sh-Shiro,” Lance hears himself say. He feels as though he’s floating around somewhere just outside of his body. He feels as though he’s reached a peak of pleasure, where nothing is real but Keith’s mouth around his dick. “Stop touching him. He’s—he’s not allowed to cum yet.”

Shiro twitches a little, looking at him curiously. Eventually, he stops, pulling his hand out from underneath Keith and ignoring the way that he whines. Lance’s thrusts slow until they eventually stop, and he’s startled when he feels that friction continue. Keith is swallowing him up readily, moving forward and back, as though he hasn’t even noticed that no one’s making him anymore. Lance is startled by it, for a single string of rapid heartbeats, before he turns his attention back to Shiro and wills himself to speak through the fog of pleasure currently seeping into his thoughts.

“Sh-Shiro, just, um—” Keith’s tongue drags just under the head, sparking a feeling deep inside of him that rattles through his bones. “C-could you just—”

As though he knows exactly what Lance means, he nods his head, placing both of his hands on Keith’s hips and raising himself up. Keith groans noisily as Shiro slips inside of him, sliding forward on the bed and resting more of his weight against Lance.

Shiro’s first few thrusts are deliberate and steady. He pushes in, he pulls out. Keith is moving forward and back, trying to up the speed, trying to force Shiro in just a little bit rougher, if only to match what Lance is doing to his mouth, but Shiro’s hands against his hips hold him firmly in place. He’s whining again. He’s swallowing Lance’s cock desperately as though that might reward him with a rougher fuck.

And Lance wonders if maybe this is what Shiro had in mind when he was warning him earlier. He wonders if this version of Keith was too much for him at first too. He’s fantasized many times about breaking Keith down into nothing, and never in his life would he have imagined that Keith would readily crumble on his own. He remembers the sorts of things that his friends would whisper about girls back in high school. He remembers the rude names, the quiet jeers.

_“She’s hungry for dick,”_ his buddy would tell him, about a girl so many leagues ahead of him that Lance was surprised that she knew of him at all. And he’d never understood that terminology. He’d never been able to wrap his head around someone being “cock hungry” until now.

Because Keith is looking at him as though he’s a starving man, salivating in front of an _‘All You Can Eat Buffet’_. Keith is swallowing him as though he’s his final meal. He would have never imagined the great Keith Kogane getting to this point, but now that he’s looking at him—slumped forward, gulping him deep down into the back of his throat, moaning carelessly as though he doesn’t give a damn who hears them, begging even through a mouthful for Shiro to fill him harder, deeper, faster—Lance thinks that he might cum from the sight of this alone.

And he does, so much sooner than he anticipates. He jerks back, cursing through his teeth. His seed splatters out over Keith’s open lips, down a wet chin, over scarlet-tinted cheeks. Keith is grinning lazily up at him, working the last of his orgasm from the base of him to the tip, laughing—dazed and high—when he tremors from his own sensitivity.

Lance slumps against the wall behind him, easing down from the haze of his own orgasm as he watches Shiro fuck Keith. Now that Lance is out of the picture, he’s moved forward, resting his chest on Keith’s back, lacing their fingers together on the mattress. Keith looks smaller now, and the image contorts from one straight out of Lance’s favorite pornos to a secret, late-night tryst. Shiro’s biting Keith’s ear, whispering something so softly to him that Lance can’t hope to hear it.

He ignores the jealousy that bubbles up inside of him. He focuses instead on the way that Shiro still obeys his orders not to touch—the way that Keith’s cock bobs up and down, slapping against his belly with each thrust.

Shiro is all around Keith now—burying his face in his hair, sliding himself deep inside. He lets out a quiet, strangled sort of moan when he cums. He’s wrapping an arm around Keith’s chest. The three of them sit quiet for a long stretch of time. They’re breathing and they’re working through their daze. Keith’s chest is rising and falling rapidly. His swollen, open lips struggle to drag in air.

He looks as though he’s worried that they might have forgotten him—as though he thinks that they’re all done for the night.

“Shiro,” Lance says feebly. He pushes himself off of the wall. “Sit down. Put Keith in your lap.”

Shiro does as he’s told, albeit a little sluggishly. He sits back at the foot of the bed, grabbing Keith under the arms and pulling him into his lap. Keith doesn’t object. He allows himself to be moved around. His erection sways between his legs, prodding into the air as he sits, reaching out ardently, as though it has the capacity to understand that it’s finally Keith’s turn to be touched.

“Finger him.” Lance says simply. He’s proud of the authority that he finds in his own voice.

He watches with as much forced disinterest as he can muster for a few moments, taking in the way that Keith’s wriggling around in Shiro’s hold as the first two fingers slip in. He’s a mess of sweat and cum, of drool and tears shining on his skin even in the dim light. His hair stands in all directions. Between his legs, Shiro’s fingers make a squelching sound as they pump in and out. Already, he’s caving in. He’s resting his weight against Shiro’s chest, watching Lance with pleading, half-lidded eyes.

Lance reaches out, grasping Keith’s erection loosely in his hands, ignoring the way that he gasps. He’s holding it as lightly as he can, dragging his palm slowly up and down, purposefully agonizing.

“Who’s the cargo pilot now, Keith, huh?” He spits. Shiro bites his lip, turning his head to the side to hide his smile. “Who’s the cargo pilot now?”

Keith scrunches his brows, working out Lance’s words through muddled thoughts, his breathing staggered and stressed. Shiro latches onto his neck, nibbling in some spots, sucking in others. It makes Lance’s skin itch where he knows that Shiro has left marks.

“U-uh,” Keith shudders a breath. “U-um… you… are?”

Lance feels a smug smile curling over his lips, until he realizes that Keith didn’t actually manage to answer his question correctly. He sits back, tugging his hand away from Keith’s erection, eliciting another pained, heartbroken sort of whine that only fuels his annoyance. Somehow, Keith even manages to insult him when he isn’t trying. Lance glowers in Shiro’s direction when he hears him laugh.

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, his syllables in sync with each slow thrust of his fingers, “Lance isn’t a cargo pilot anymore. You have to say  _ ‘not you’ _ , okay?”

Keith gulps in a few breaths of air, nodding his head in two short, jerking motions. Lance clicks his tongue, pushing down his aggravation and reaching out to grasp his erection once again.

“You’re not getting off until you admit it, Mullet,” he bites out, pumping just as steadily as before, “Who’s the cargo pilot, Keith?”

Keith lets out a garbled moan, closing his eyes tightly and tipping back his head onto Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro kisses his cheek, ignoring the mess that’s slowly drying there, and flicks his gaze up to meet Lance’s. He doesn’t seem particularly worried about any of this. He doesn’t look as though he thinks that Lance is taking things too far. If anything, he’s behaving as though this is commonplace—as though this is the Keith that he always finds himself curling up with in the bedroom late at night.

“I-I—” Keith sucks in another deep breath as Lance grasps at him a little firmer. “I—um.”

“Keith, tell me who the cargo pilot is.”

Keith is writhing now, forcing himself down on Shiro’s fingers, then thrusting up into Lance’s hand. His fingers are wrapped around each of Shiro’s arms, sinking down into the flesh of his human skin, dragging out angry red marks.

“Keith—”

Within seconds, maybe even more surprising than Lance’s own orgasm, Keith is cumming hard—trembling violently as his seed splatters over his belly and up to his chest, with a breathless whine of, “Y-you’re the cargo pilot! You—you’re the cargo pilot!”

Lance sits still, so startled by Keith’s violent end that it takes a moment for him to catch up. Of course, he feels absolutely cheated—as though his devious plans have fallen flat again, as though he really never can have any sort of victory when Keith is involved. Shiro is finding it hard to cover up his laughter, apologizing profusely as Keith lulls off into a contented blur. He’s heaving against Shiro’s chest, his tired hands slipping down to rest in his lap. He doesn’t seem as though he even realizes what he’s said.

“I-I’m sorry, Lance,” Shiro forces out between laughs, bringing his free hand to his mouth in a weak attempt at hiding his smile, “You should have phrased it differently. H-he didn’t understand, I—I’m sorry.”

Lance rolls his eyes, shaking his head in aggravation and wriggling off of the bed. They have time, he tells himself, sparing Keith and Shiro a look over his shoulder and convincing himself that both of them aren’t incredibly, undeniably adorable. They have time to make this scenario work. He has time to make Keith admit to both of them that he’s more than what he used to be—more than what he still struggles to consider himself even in his own mind.

Keith is fading out of his orgasmic high, and Shiro is kissing him gently. Lance fetches a dirty pajama shirt from the corner, brings it back and helps Shiro clean all three of them off.

He accepts a lazy kiss from Keith, allows Shiro to pull him close.

They only have time.

 

* * *

 

Later in the night, as they’re all squeezed together in the bed—Shiro smashed against the wall, Keith tucked in the middle, and Lance complaining as he struggles to stay on the edge—Lance finds himself rambling over the sound of Shiro’s quiet snoring.

“I just don’t really get it, you know? Like how am I going to explain to my family that I have two boyfriends? What is my mom going to say—”

“Lance.” Keith’s voice is tired and muffled by the pillow against his face.

“I think my dad will be a little more accepting of it, because he always told me that he did some crazy stuff in college, even if he never explained what it was. But I still don’t really know if he’ll be totally okay with this. I mean, it’s kind of hard to tell your folks, _‘Hey mom, dad, I know I’ve been away saving the universe for a few years but I brought home two lovers_ ’—”

“Lance.”

“I just feel like maybe they’ll be a little more considerate about it since I’ve been away for so long—I mean, they should, right? Reasonably, they’d be so excited to see me that they wouldn’t really care if I brought home a billion boyfriends as long as I’m there in one piece, but what if—”

“Lance, seriously, cut it out!” Keith reaches forward and wraps an arm around his chest, kissing the back of his neck. The feeling of those soft lips against his skin sends a wave of warmth skittering down his spine. He looks out into the darkness of the room, drawing in a deep breath. The smell of sex has faded away, leaving in its wake a curious mixture of sweetness and machine oil, of Keith’s usual musk, of Shiro’s powdery cleanness. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, he imagines that they can smell him too. He wonders if his scent mixes as well as theirs do, if he’s welcome here, or if he’s just getting in the way.

“It gonna be alright,” Keith breathes, his grasp around Lance’s chest loosening as he slips into sleep, “Don’t worry about… it…  _ fighter pilot _ .”

Lance laughs—the sound of it crisp and loud in the silence of the night. He tips his head back, and he smiles wide, with only the darkness to see him.

He laces his fingers together with Keith’s. He listens to the quiet sound of both of them snoring together.

And he tells himself, yes, it will all be alright in the end.

They have each other, and that’s all that he really needs.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't have a good excuse for this. 
> 
> So my one year "friendiversary" with lemoninagin was two days ago, and when I asked her what she wanted me to write for it, she said, "Shklance." It ended up getting away from me... a lot... Good lord, this ended up being a long fic! I've been editing it for about two hours now! Also, I took some pretty obvious liberties with Keith's room. I don't think he has a nightstand, but dammit, he should! 
> 
> Also, a special thanks to DracoSH for helping me with the title! It's a french idiom, meaning "never two without a third". 
> 
> So thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!


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